“Garden house”, as my friend Angela calls is, is a true struggle. While I’m bent over sinking carrot seeds into the soil, the interior of our cottage is somehow slowly exploding with mud, dirty dishes, piles of laundry, and random bits of food. Feeling quite proud of my accomplishments, I’ll venture back into the cottage

It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the time of year when the earth is giving more than we can possibly enjoy, I can barely find it in my strength to cook. While the charming, straight rows of the market garden bring all manner of produce to the kitchen countertop, it’s often around 4:30 pm that I